Fashion Sense
by vladimira-chan
Summary: Because if being a thirteen-year-old wanted criminal wasn't bad enough, Itachi now had to wear nail polish. Somewhat fluffy; KisaIta.


**A/N: Just too fun an idea to pass up. And I think I've developed a slight obsession with KisaIta/ItaKisa. This was pretty tough to get in character, because I wanted to have Itachi being thirteen and Kisame not deferring to him as much, since they've just met. Er...not sure how that came out, but it is cute. I have to write more of this pairing sometime...:3**

**Warnings: Spoilers so slight you'll barely notice them.**

**Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Masashi Kishimoto.**

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"_This is our dress code. No exceptions."_

If Itachi had been the type to show emotion, he would have cursed. Wistfully, he decided that he much preferred Konoha's Anbu outfit, or even a jounin vest. Not _this_.

The cloak wasn't that bad, really. It was bulky, but acceptable. Plus, he could just whip it off when he needed to move freely; with Itachi being a genjutsu expert, this wasn't often.

Then, there was the _hat_.

He wasn't a Hyuga, for Kami's sake! Did they expect him to be able to able to see over that wall of bamboo? And, even though Itachi appreciated that it would be good to keep the sun off his hair—black heated up so easily—it might make his bangs droop. Not that he was vain; it just…bothered him.

However, Itachi hadn't killed his best friend and almost every member of his family to be scared off by a hat and a cloak. No, the _nail polish_ did that. It was purple. And not just any purple, periwinkle-mixed-with-pink-purple. If possible, he hated Madara even more now.

After collecting his temper and focusing on his surroundings, it didn't take much effort for him to realize that someone—presumably, the man who'd been assigned to work with—was approaching. Itachi huffed and picked up his cloak, managing to find the bottom and slipping through it until he felt cooler air on his head. If the cloth hadn't been muffling him, he _definitely_ would have cursed.

The ends hung floppily over his hands, he couldn't see over his well-starched collar, and the bottom bloomed out over his feet like a wedding train. The ponytail he was trying so hard to grow out was completely hidden, as was every other part of him. The hat was really unnecessary. He knew that the other missing-nin had entered when he heard a low chuckle.

"Need some help, Itachi?"

The Uchiha fumbled inside the vast expanse of the cloak and pulled the zipper down; without much ado, it fell into a heap at his feet. The blue man—Kisame—snorted and threw Itachi a few light objects. Itachi caught and scrutinized them, almost amused: a needle, some black thread, and a large pair of scissors.

"Leader-sama supposed that alterations would be necessary."

Exuding boredom, as always, the Uchiha took a seat on the floor and threaded the needle. This was no simple task and took him several tries; his pounding headache and blurred vision did nothing to help him. Inhaling resolutely, he tied a knot on the edge of his thread, folded the material up to where he assumed it should fall, and used the scissors to cut the cloth shorter. Finally, he formed the hem and began to push the needle through. Through his peripheral vision, he caught Kisame sitting down on the floor as well, sword made to learn against the wall by the door where he had entered.

It was painstaking work; every stitch needed to be straight and the same length as the previous one. Itachi used a few pins he found in his shuriken pouch to keep the fabric in place. He persevered, allowing his body the rest it sorely needed, and finally completed hemming the bottom. The Uchiha continued on to each of the sleeves and finally the collar; the time went by in complete silence, aside from some disinterested and mostly one-sided conversations courtesy of his new partner.

Itachi felt a grim satisfaction at his work when he pulled it on; it fell slightly below his knees now, and the collar had been lowered enough to allow use of the Sharingan. He shuffled back over to his possessions, bending down to pick up his hat and place it on his head. Thankfully, no amends were necessary there, and he cast it off again with some relief. Itachi's eyes confronted his final foe: the little bottle of purple nail polish.

Resigned to his humiliation, the teenager sat, legs crossed, and proceeded to take off his sandals. Now bare, two sets of pale feet lay exposed; Itachi unscrewed the cap of the bottle in one fluid motion and clumsily coated the brush. His inexperienced hand trembled with exhaustion; the first coat left a ring of purple on the skin around his nail. He heard Kisame shift behind him, and the blue ninja settled down in front of the boy, lifted Itachi's foot with calloused hands, and placed it on his own knee. Wordlessly, Itachi and handed him the bottle, ashamed at his inability to perfect this strange new skill and compensating by glaring with as much ferocity as he could muster.

By instinct, as the other man picked up the brush, Itachi activated his Sharingan and began to record the practiced motions. Kisame carefully ran the brush straight from lunula to free edge in confident, graceful strokes. Back, then up, and forward, then back again. It was hypnotic—or maybe the fumes were getting to him.

With a gentleness he hadn't expected, the man shifted Itachi's foot ever-so-slightly, so that a tingle ran down the Uchiha's sensitive sole. The soft, cool tickling feeling of the brush furthered the sensation; Itachi bit his tongue and blamed his teenage hormones.

He was almost disappointed when Kisame finished painting one foot, but the other was soon placed on the man's knee, and the treatment resumed. Trying to relax, the younger boy blocked the rhythm from his mind, instead recalling a crack in the wall and analyzing the different ways an enemy could use it. Itachi had almost figured out the exact spot and amount of pressure necessary to snap the wall to pieces when the brush slid along his smallest toe for the last time and the tingles came to an abrupt end. The young prodigy was between disappointed and relieved, until Kisame grabbed his hand and pulled it forward, dipping the brush in once more and continuing. The mist ninja's actions were as slow and deliberate as ever, but Itachi's fingers took less time, and before he had adequately processed it, the feeling ebbed away.

Kisame seemed to lose interest in his partner at this point; he stood up, walking to the door, and unsheathed his sword, polishing the rough surfaces. After almost fifteen minutes, Kisame seemed satisfied, and Itachi experimentally ran a finger pad over his pinky's nail. It was dry.

Standing up, he placed his hat upon his head and gathered his belongings. He and Kisame had to be at the hotel in Wind country by nightfall; they had no time to lose. Just as he approached the door, Kisame stopped him. Reaching into the folds of his cloak, the elder Akatsuki pulled out a ring, silver with a crimson stone set within it and the kanji _shu_—scarlet—inscribed in black.

"This is your Akatsuki ring," he explained, and tugged on the boy's sleeve, grasping Itachi's right hand. Silently, Kisame slid the ring onto a pale, elegant digit and, dropping the hand, turned away and headed out the door. Itachi followed, leisurely, as he fought down a slight blush.

The band was on his ring finger.

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**Review, please?**

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